


An Abundance of Time

by matchstick_milk



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, Canon Disabled Character, Driving, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mountains, Newt Lives, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safe Haven, everyone likes to pick on gally, i just wanted to write something chill, newtmas - Freeform, teen shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13732311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchstick_milk/pseuds/matchstick_milk
Summary: [AU where Newt Lives because I'm in denial] Newt and Thomas get to live together, though adjusting is sometimes hard after all they've been through. Newt does something nice for the both of them.





	An Abundance of Time

**Author's Note:**

> yo! not much to say here except i love maze runner, and i never read the books, and i just want newt and thomas (and everyone else) to be happy! 
> 
> twitter: @protokrawl

 

Paradise is not without its stressors.

 

There are things about it that are so different from the Glade: there's no oppressive air of claustrophobia every time Newt looks to the horizon (hell, there's actually a _horizon_  to look to now); the wind doesn't carry the agonizing sound of grievers starving and hunting in a maze of concrete; the morning's air isn't saturated with moisture, muggy and heavy as it was in the Glade. Sometimes, Newt even goes to bed, skin void of the usual unpleasant sheen of sweat.

 

There are things that are still the same, though. Gally's still telling people what to do, and getting mad when some shank does the right thing to tick him off; Minho runs everyday, sometimes for an hour in the morning, and sometimes disappearing over the dunes for the entire day. Newt doesn't know why he does it. Maybe it's just habit, or muscle memory.

 

And, the memorial rock in the center of camp, that's the same, in a way. Except the names carved into it won't be crossed out. Newt's caught Thomas lingering in front of it on more than one occasion, fingers ghosting over the names: Winston, and Alby, and Teresa, of course. Newt's told him many a time, he doesn't forgive Teresa. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day he'll gather up the courage to feel good about her, the way Thomas seems to. 

 

..

 

Newt finds himself sitting next to Thomas on a night much like his first in the Glade. They're propped up against a log, the two of them, backs to the roaring bonfire, picking at the food Frypan has supplied. They share the plate, and enjoy the spit of privacy sitting so close to the ocean at high tide brings. 

 

When he looks from the frothy crest of a particularly large wave, he catches Thomas looking at the remnants of the Flare left on his arm: the veiny marks and angry flesh, worn from red to pink, now that it's regressed. 

 

Thomas looks away quickly, lips pursed like he's been thinking too much. 

 

"You know," Newt begins, lips curling slightly. "It's not polite to stare."

 

Thomas smiles a little, caught. "Yeah, I know." When he meets Newt's eye, his smile turns a touch apologetic. "Sorry."

 

"S'alright, Tommy," given with a light nudge. He doesn't draw back, though, and neither says anything about their arms, brushing carefully between them. "If I called you out for every time I've caught you staring, I don't think I'd be saying much else to you."

 

Newt lets himself toe the line a little. They've been like this for... well, since the Glade, he supposes. And in the Scorch. And in their time spent mousing around WCKD's compounds with the Right Arm. He's caught Tommy staring, and Thomas has caught him, the object of their attention not always wounds. Sometimes it's to make sure the other is there, or to find a sense of relief; neither feels alone when the other is present. 

 

Love is a hard thing to parse out for Newt. He loves his friends; he knows when it comes to love--or what people have said about it--you would do anything for the person, and he'd do anything for his friends, no questions asked. Thomas, Minho, Frypan, Brenda, and, hell, even Gally. But, Thomas feels different. He doesn't look at the others like he looks at Thomas--like he's looking at him now. 

 

"I don't--," and Thomas looks at the sand, and then up, head angled out towards the ocean. "I don't _stare_."

 

"Ahah." Newt scoffs a little laugh, setting the plate on the sand at their feet. "Oh, no, you don't think so?"

 

It's Thomas's turn to laugh; it's quiet and private and a little bashful. They both look at Thomas's hands when he fiddles with them in his lap, and Newt can practically feel them--grabbing him and pulling him along to safety. "Well, what about you, then, huh? What's your excuse?"

 

"Well, don't tell the others I said so," he begins, and there's a part of him that's going into survival mode; a piece of his brain that’s instantly wary. "But you're not that bad too look at, Tommy." He feels the warm sting of his own blush creep up the back of his neck. 

 

When he looks at Thomas, his face is quite red--as red as Gally's when he gets particularly annoyed. He blinks, breaking the attention he's held on Newt, shaking his head with a small grin. Newt thinks modesty looks good on Tommy, before he's embarrassed at thinking something so cheesy. 

 

"Yeah, well...." Newt watches him chew on the idea of something, before he's glancing back at him. "I guess you're not so bad yourself."

 

"Not so bad?" Newt scoffs again, feigning offense. Thomas laughs, loud. "Jesus, Tommy, _not so bad_  won't get me much of anywhere, will it?"

 

"That's not what I meant," Thomas insists through small boughts of laughter, all while Newt tells him, "I take it back, then, ya ugly shank."

 

When they've settled down, they're closer than before; _maybe it's subconscious_ , Newt thinks, when he notices his arm has slung itself around Thomas, resting on the log.

 

" _Not so bad._ " He shakes his head and Thomas clicks his tongue as if to say, _What can you do_? "Bloody hell, who'd wanna kiss _not so bad_  anyway, huh? Might as well try my luck with the cranks. 'M sure they don't care so much about looks."

 

He sees Thomas's eyes flicker down to his lips for a moment, when the word _kiss_  comes up, and it makes his stomach erupt into an anxious fluttering. Thomas knows he's been caught again when he looks back up at Newt. 

 

Newt doesn't know who moves first. Maybe they both move at the same time. They're quite in sync by now, after so much time spent together. 

 

The kiss they share is chaste, a first for Newt. He knows it's not the first for Thomas, that he and Teresa had kissed before she fell to her death in the Last City. Thomas only mentioned it once, late at night: it was a mix of a lot of things, he had said. _Love, I guess, and desperation and being confused and like saying goodbye_. 

 

..

 

The pleasant thing about kissing Thomas is that it doesn't feel all that different from how he and Newt were before. There is _kissing_  now, yes, but all the rest is the same. 

 

The only thing that's changed is now, when Newt catches Thomas staring at him from across the camp or the gardens or the bonfire, though, he winks; Thomas always looks away with a small smile, often shaking his head. Minho’s caught the interaction a couple times, always taking extra care to tell Newt how transparent thry both are. This is a change Newt can learn to live with. 

 

..

 

What feels so different about Paradise is the sudden abundance of time, and the lack of destination. Newt isn't so much bothered by it as Thomas seems to be. He'd been waiting for somewhere like Paradise--aptly named, he thinks--knowing there was a place for them somewhere in the world. 

 

Thomas feels restless here, he knows. Content, but without purpose. He feels that way sometimes, too, in the earliest hours of the morning. All those that are left from the Glade are the first to wake, the structure engrained into them after three years of toiling by necessity to keep order in the Maze. A question like, _Now what;_ it's what keeps Minho running when he doesn't need to be, and it's what keeps Thomas staring at the memorial rock like there's still an objective, like he can maybe figure a way to bring back those they've lost and have something to work towards again. 

 

Newt finds Jorge among the various automobiles they have, hunched under a rusted hood, restoring a car to working quality, and asks a favor of him.

 

It comes after a long night, where neither he nor Thomas slept much. Nightmares and that aching restlessness had bugged at them both, and they had met the morning tucked into a single straw cot, a little grumpy and quiet, muttering small things to try to make the other feel better. 

 

Jorge says yes, and warns Newt to take care of his baby as he tosses him the keys. 

 

..

 

Newt and Thomas leave under the pretense of a scavenging run.

 

Vince is hesitant at first. The mountains are miles away from where they've set up camp, and haven't been explored much. It's risky for only two to be driving through them. If it were anyone else, Newt thinks with a small grain of pride, Vince might not have let them go. 

 

But, Vince knows them, knows their track record. They have a history of "getting into trouble, and getting outta trouble, and doing whatever the hell you want to anyways," Vince says, and that's permission enough. 

 

Newt drives, letting Thomas take in the scenery as the truck crawls away from their slice of paradise. They're halfway up the hillside, rattling along a poor excuse for a road, when Thomas talks. "It looks so much bigger from up here," he says, face out the window. Newt glances over; _the ocean_. 

 

He smiles, because he can't quite help himself, when Thomas looks back at him.

 

"What?" Thomas asks. 

 

"Nothing, nothin'." Newt shakes his head, insisting there's nothing he wants to say, even when Thomas shakes his arm in an attempt to get him to talk. "It's nothing, Tommy, I swear." 

 

"Okay, okay," Thomas sighs, allowing himself to be a little dramatic. This is one of Newt's favorite things; there are parts of Thomas not many people get to see. The part that doesn't feel the heavy responsibility of leadership. There's a quiet pride Newt feels, knowing that Thomas feels comfortable enough around him to let go a little. 

 

Newt feels a brush of skin against his hand at the gear shift. He glances at it, once and quick, lips turning up in a mischievous half-smile. "I'm driving, Tommy."

 

"Right." It comes out quick, flustered. When Newt peers over at him, Thomas shakes his head once, chastising himself as he flushes at the dashboard. 

 

He doesn't say anything; only reaches out for Thomas's hand, and let's their palms fold together on the center console. It doesn't last long--driving on these mountain paths gets tricky, and requires a lot of control--but Newt likes to think its the thought that counts.

 

..

 

Newt pulls to a stop below a peak the car can't crawl up. When he leaps from the car, Thomas is leaning out the open window, concern on his face. "Newt." He fiddles with the handle, spilling out of the truck after the blonde. "Newt, what's goin' on?"

 

"Thought I'd take you out for a little surprise," he says, squinting up at the peak, past the harsh cut of the afternoon sun. 

 

"Yeah, but what about scavenging...?" He trails off when Newt turns back to him, shrugging. 

 

"We can..." he kicks his better leg out, nudging at some rocks, "bring back some stones or something, yeah?"

 

Thomas lips pull as he stares up at the hill, unsure. "What about you leg?"

 

"It'll be fine." Newt waves his hand, stubborn as he starts toward it. "Really, Tommy, I'm all right, I swear."

 

..

 

Newt is not all right.

 

The peak isn't too demanding, but it's a long hike. They've both done worse, obviously: running through the Maze, trekking day after endless day through the Scorch. He'd been at death's door while rescuing Minho--the point is, he's been worse. 

 

But, today, of all days, is when his leg seems to decide to act up. They have to keep stopping in increments on their way up the hill. Thomas insists it's fine, and Newt let's him say so without argument, despite feeling like he's slowing Thomas down. He knows Thomas could have been up the hill and back twice by now.

 

At one point, he says so, while they're both spread out in the sun on a particularly large boulder. 

 

Thomas takes a long swig of water, passing it to Newt. "Yeah, but that's not the point, y'know." 

 

"And, what _is_  the point?"

 

"Being here together, I thought." 

 

_Leave it to Tommy_ , Newt thinks, chewing the inside of his cheek, _to say something so dimwittedly sweet._

"You're right," he says with a grunt, pushing himself onto his feet. Dusting the dirt from his pants, he holds a hand out for Thomas to take. "C'mon then, let's go. We haven't got all day." Thomas takes his hand with a look that's hard to pick apart. 

 

..

 

They reach the summit not long after, and it's gratifying for Newt to see Thomas drinking it all in. They find a nice place to rest near the edge for a bit, the wind stronger up here. Thomas lifts up the bottom of his shirt to catch it, and "dry the sweat away," he explains. 

 

Newt likes living at the safe haven, but part of him missed this: the satisfaction of completing something, the catharsis of a physical challenge. It's nice to have it without the constant feeling of danger or paranoia. 

 

"Let me see your leg?" Thomas requests suddenly, surprising Newt out of a reverie. Newt bends his knee, confused at the request, before Thomas is laughing. "No, no, like--." He pats his lap. "Like, let me see your leg."

 

Newt maneuvers himself so one leg is bent, the other outstretched across Thomas's lap. Strong hands press into it, careful in how they move over his limb, parsing out where it's the most sore. It's a little embarrassing to be doted on, but it's just the two of them here, and Thomas seems to want to, so Newt lets himself enjoy each tender touch. 

 

"Y'know, I could get used to this, yeah?" he sighs as fingers work over his knee. Thomas presses to the muscles at the back, and Newt hisses. 

 

"Shit--sorry, sorry--."

 

"No, s'good, it's just sore." Newt fidgets a bit, allowing himself to watch Thomas absorb himself in this task. "You don't have to do this you know."

 

"Yeah, I know," with a bashful shrug. _But I want to_. He doesn't say it, but, then again, he doesn't have to. 

 

"You want me to do you next?" 

 

Thomas grins, and it's so bright that Newt feels a little weak for a second. "I don't have anywhere that's sore, though?"

 

"You kidding?" Newt rolls his eyes. "Tommy, all've Paradise has been busting their asses, puttin' up tents and fishing and all that, and yet here you are passing up a massage at the top of a mountain." 

 

"I mean, if you're offering--"

 

"Nope." Newt leans back against the flat of the rock, shutting his eyes. "Offer's expired." The sun bakes through his skin, but it doesn't suffocate him like the Scorch. If he closes his eyes tight enough and holds his breath, he can imagine them back there. 

 

..

 

They stay up there long enough to see the sun set. That was the whole point of the thing, for Newt. Well, not the _point_ , but the objective. The sun setting wasn't something they were allowed to witness, the sprawling walls of the maze always cutting them off from any sort of horizon, so it feels like a gift sometimes, to get to see it now. It's like a symbol for all the things they've done, all that they've gone through. 

 

It's light as it sets over the sea is a healthy shade of red, and it paints them both as they spy the lights of the safe haven beginning to ignite. 

 

"I think that's the bonfire," Newt says, pointing. Thomas follows the line of his arm. They turn to look at one another at the same time, a small quirk that puts them too close in each other's space. Newt drops his arm, and the corner of Thomas's lip pulls into a smirk. 

 

"Hey Newt."

 

"Hey Tommy."

 

Thomas licks his lips, eyes flickering away from Newt, as if he needs that visual space to think a clear thought. "Thanks for... y’know, bringing me out here."

 

"Don't mention it,” Newt murmurs, head angling as he closes the space between them, more like a question. They don’t do this often, and Newt always feels the need to ask, in one way or another. "Thought’d be nice to get outta that place for a bit. ’Sides, you deserve it." 

 

A thought passes over Thomas’s face before he meets Newt in the midde. This kiss is different from the first, and the others they've spared in whatever privacy they can find in camp. Thomas's hand fits at Newt's cheek; it's slow and deep, and for the millionth time, Newt's overwhelmingly thankful to have Tommy in his life. He wouldn't have this--none of this--if he hadn't helped cure him, or if he hadn't broken them out of the WCKD compound, or if he hadn't ever shown up in the Glade so many years ago. 

 

The kiss breaks, and Newt lets his lips head settle on Thomas’s shoulder, not really doing much besides appreciating the fact that he can. Thomas sighs, contentedly: "Is it shitty of me to say I don't wanna leave?" 

 

"Aw, don't say that," Newt hums. "You'd damn well break Gally's heart if you left." 

 

..

 

They leave soon after, deciding it's best to go while they've still got the lazy blue of twilight to help them find their way back to the car. Thomas offers to drive this time, and Newt doesn't put up any kind of fight. The wind that blows through the car is clear and cool, and neither's ever known a summer night to be like this. "I could get used to this." Newt says it lazily, reclined back in the passenger seat. He feels safe here, with the gentle rocking of the car, with Thomas at the wheel. 

 

There's a radio left in the car; Jorge used it back in the Scorch, listening to any activity from WCKD, any sort of indication to warn if they were nearby. But, someone--neither of them know who, but both would reckon it was Brenda--had found an old box of music tapes. 

 

There are only two songs that don't skip, and the radio itself sounds like shit, all grainy, it's wires probably stripped after years of wear and tear, but they like it anyway. Neither can really imagine a world where making music was one person's job, nor can they really imagine a world where the things they sing about are true. It's nice to have them, though.

 

At this point, most of the safe haven's familiar with the tapes, and they both know the words. They sing along to one of them, loud and bad, Thomas's hands drumming on the steering wheel. They pause every time the track skips or repeats. By the time they reach home, they've listened to it in full three times. Newt wonders briefly if either of them are any good at dancing before deciding _probably not_. 

 

..

 

When they get back, people are huddled around bonfires for dinner. They try to sneak past the thrum of life on the beaches, but Minho is far too observant, and Brenda's far too curious. Frypan feeds them, and they tell the others they didn't find much to scavenge. 

 

"I'd like to try going out again, though," Newt says around a mouthful. "I'm sure there's loads out there."

 

"Could find Gally a sense of humor, maybe," Brenda says, smiling brightly at the exasperated look Gally gives her. 

 

They crawl into bed together in Newt's hut; it's a bottom bunk in a room usually also occupied by Minho and Aris, but they're both busy with other things. It's a cramped space, but neither minds--it's a nice excuse to be close together (though, Newt will admit, there have been occasions where he'd been _this close_  to kicking Tommy out on particularly hot nights). 

 

"It'd be nice to have a little hut for ourselves," Newt murmurs, sprawled out on his bed. Thomas collapses on top of him with a thud, knocking the wind out of him before rolling to rest at Newt's side.

 

"Yeah." Thomas's voice is tired, eyes already heavy when he looks at Newt. 

 

"Someplace down the beach a bit. Close to the water." 

 

"Someplace with a bigger bed." 

 

"Yeah," Newt groans as he stretches. "That'd be nice." 

 

"Yeah."

 

"Yeah."

 

"Yeah."

 

They both grin up at the underside of Aris's bunk. 

 

..

 

This is another thing Newt has noticed is different. There's never any urgency, here, and when he's with Thomas. He doesn't feel time pushing down on him, squeezing them all under its gnawing thumb. Time had always been a precious commodity, especially when the Flare had been crawling up his arm and around inside him. He could feel each second pass, each more precious and frantic than the last. 

 

With a wealth of time before him, he watches Thomas snore into the pillow before he gives into his exhaustion. 

 


End file.
